


the nightly heavens are not more beautiful

by Cerberusia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Pederasty, Pureblood Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7912561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While spending the Christmas hols with Scorpius at the Manor, Albus pays nightly visits to Draco's study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the nightly heavens are not more beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old piece, written for the Draco/Albus fest in 2012 on LJ - which I somehow forgot to upload, whoops. Now I'm wondering what other old fics of mine I've missed...

Albus is lucky that Scorpius sleeps like the dead: it makes it easy to slip out of bed in the early hours, feet soundless on the cold Manor floors, and make his way to Draco's study. He's long since learnt how to avoid waking up the portraits, and the few that are awake look at him with what he suspects is amusement. Astoria brought a few portraits from her house when she came, so he makes sure to only pass through corridors with Malfoys: Draco's ancestors may be entertained by the poetic irony, but he thinks Astoria's might be rather less forgiving.

It's the Christmas hols, so the study is lit and warmed by a fire in the grate. Draco is in his big green armchair facing the door, but with his torso turned to one side towards the hearth, glass in one hand, occasionally throwing handfuls of fine black powder onto the fire, making it flare blue-green.

"Billywig stings. It's the venom, you know." Draco takes a sip of his drink, contemplative, then puts it down. "Come here," he says, turning his hands palm up. Albus knows what he wants: he steps forward, around the desk, and carefully climbs into Draco's lap, straddling his thighs. Draco quickly takes him by the hips to steady him. His hands feel very large spanning Albus' back.

"My, you're growing like a weed," says Draco - approvingly, Albus thinks. He's right: Draco, though thin, is tall, and Albus has been used to seeing him as huge, an adult next to Albus' childish frame - but now the chair seems hardly big enough for both of them. Albus won't be as tall, not with his parents, but he'll be broader in the shoulders for sure. "I'm sure I didn't look like that at fourteen." Albus spares a moment to imagine fourteen-year-old Draco - an amalgamation of faded Quidditch team photographs and a vivid imagination - and decides he likes it.

"I'll be turning fifteen in a few days, though," He reminds him, shifting a bit to get comfortable. They're both pretty bony, so positioning can be tricky.

"I remember - do you think I'd forget your birthday? And then, at last, this will all be legal, if not perhaps strictly moral." Draco's eyebrow raise is imbued with more irony than Albus would have thought strictly possible.

"Lucky, then," says Albus, with a sly glance from under his eyebrows, "that Slytherins don't have to care about that sort of thing." As predicted, Draco laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. At forty-one he's still in his prime, but like many wizards of his generation, he seems prematurely aged. Once, when Albus had gently traced the faint crows-feet, he'd looked at Albus in a way which Albus couldn't describe, and said _that's what war does to you, little snake_ , and then he'd taken Albus' hand and kissed it and nothing more was said because Albus knew that there was nothing he could say. One of the first things he was taught was _don't mention the war_. It's too painful, too awkward. The history books can spin it any way they like - history is written by the victors, after all - but after all's said and done war is fundamentally messy, and the transition to peacetime rarely cleans up successfully.

Albus supposes that that's why neither Draco nor Scorpius go out much.

"No," says Draco, beginning to trace a hand up Albus' side, "but Slytherins _do_ take care of their own, and you need some _taking care_ of." Albus grins stupidly. He likes their conversations, loves them even, but the sex - ugh, just _thinking_ about it is enough to get him hard. He loves Draco's elegant white hand with its long fingers and his pink, catlike tongue. He doesn't understand why he'd ever want boys and girls his own age: even Scorpius, already resembling his father in more ways that just looks, and possessing the strange sensuality that only adolescents can, doesn't have that sense of raw _power_ which attracts Albus. Fundamentally, he supposes that he likes people who know what they're doing and what they want, and aren't shy about getting it no matter the obstacles - physical, mental, bureaucratic or moral. Quintessential Slytherins - and Scorpius, for all his charm, is very much a Ravenclaw.

( _Does Astoria know?_ he'd once asked Draco, in a moment of rashness. The moment he'd said it, his stomach turned in shame, anger and a little fear. What a _stupid_ thing to say. But Draco had only smiled his mysterious smile and said _I don't think she'd be interested_ ).

Draco likes to pump him slowly, long smooth strokes so Albus has to grasp his shoulders and thrust harder into his grasp, then suddenly change to tracing his fingers around the sensitive head so Albus nearly cries. At the start he'd tried to muffle himself, bite back any sounds of weakness. But Draco had seen him biting his lip and laughed, said, _it's not a contest, Albus, just enjoy it_ , and Albus had done as he was told. The point, Draco had told him afterwards, wasn't restraint. It wasn't a test: it was _bonding_.

Tonight, Draco gets them off together, holding both their cocks in his fist. It's Albus' favourite and Draco knows that, so it's either a reward or a buttering-up. So far it's always been the former, but there's a first time for everything.

When Albus is slumped boneless on top on Draco in the chair, semen Vanished and clothes straightened, and he feels Draco inhale as if to speak, he knows it ws the latter. _Fuck_.

"Your father once told me," begins Draco, and Albus has to force himself not to tense because he hates being compared to Dad and Draco _knows_ that. "Your father once told me, on one of the few occasions we spoke as adults, that the Sorting Hat tried to sort him into Slytherin."

"He told me that too. What did you say?" Where is Draco going with this? Albus raises his head from Draco's shoulder.

"I told him I could see it." Draco reaches for his glass again. Albus knows he's using the gesture for punctuation and dramatic impact rather than wanting to wet his throat, but it's still effective; he admires the fluidity of the gesture, Draco's long pale fingers against the amber liquid. He watches Draco's throat bob in profile. "He's the subtler, more cunning sort of Gryffindor. But you," he says, turning back to Albus - and Albus knows that this is for dramatic impact too but he's caught by Draco's long-lashed silver eyes anyway - "you're very brave, little snake, but very clever too. You have your father's courage, and with it you've got the brains and ambition to do something with it." His fingers close over Albus'. "Men who do well in war rarely do so well in peace. Your father's had his glory days: yours are just beginning." He tilts Albus' chin up and presses the glass to his lips, tilting it. Albus parts his lips to receive the thin trickle of liquid. It tastes like fire; like he thinks success might taste.

Draco puts the glass down, takes Albus' face in his hands, and kisses his red wet lips.

"You're going to be _great_ , little snake."


End file.
